days. They had run out of people to steal from, towns to loot, food and weapons to kill for.
They wandered the countryside— sometimes heavily armed— but sometimes like scavengers. Kings once, they had thought themselves to be, he considered.
Now like lepers.
But dangerous lepers still— he watched the trees as did the man beside him in the cab and the men in the open bed of the truck behind the cab.
He could see their eyes, the leaness, the intensity their stares gave to their features as they watched the woods. Life would never be the same again, he suddenly thought.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Commander Gundersen leaned against the radio, wanted to hammer his fist against it. He didn't. If the radio broke he wouldn't be able to contact U.S. II.
'They are there— with you?' He said it into the microphone, not bothering with pro-words, call signs. He was too angry, too saddened for that.
'This is Undergrounder— affirmative on that, Bathtub.'
The idiocy of the words they used— it amazed him. The idiocy of the entire thing.
By now, Rourke would be aboard his plane— the radio from the submarine wouldn't reach him— Rourke would keep the radio off to avoid Soviet detection. 'Shit,' Gundersen rasped, turning away from the set.
'Sir— what'll I—'
Gundersen looked behind him at the radio operator.
'Tell 'em— tell Mrs. Rourke— Jesus Christ, what'll I tell Mrs. Rourke?'
He stood there, balling his fists. In his mind, he said, 'Mrs. Rourke— see, your husband left almost an hour ago. If he isn't at the plane by now, well— he will be soon and there's no way to reach him. He's planning to look around Tennessee— just stay there and maybe he'll find you—
isn't that big a state, is it— Tennessee?'
He shook his head. 'Sir— what'll I—'
'Tell Mrs. Rourke that— ohh, Christ— I'll tell her—'
Gundersen picked up the microphone, then set it down again for an instant.
He didn't know what to say at all.
Chapter Fifty
General Ishmael Varakov sat in his seat behind his littered desk in his office without walls, the only face left for him to see without disgust that of Cathenne.
He looked up, calling out across the museum hall to her. 'Catherine!' He called again.
'Catherine!'
He looked back to his desk, his papers— no word of Rourke, no word of his niece.
In seven to ten days— perhaps far less— it would all be done. Soon, very soon, finding them would only prove useless.
'Catherine!'
He looked up and she stood in front of his desk.
'Comrade General!'
He sighed, loudly, his feet hurting. He stood up, stuffing his feet as best he could into his shoes.
'You have a mother who lives?'
'Yes, Comrade General— on a collective farm near Minsk.'
'I am ordering her transported— to a villa I own on the Black Sea— it is still beautiful there. See to it that the orders are written. And you have a brother?'
'Yes, Comrade General— he fights with our forces in northern Italy, I think.'
'Send my orders to his commanding general— I outrank the man. Your brother is ordered to my villa on the Black Sea as well.'
'But— but, Comrade General, I—'
He walked— the effort great because he was very tired. He passed around the desk, taking Catherine's hands in his, taking the notebook and pencil from her.
'We are all going to die— you should be with the ones you love at this time, Catherine, and you will issue my orders for your transportation as well— this is top priority. You will want for nothing there. You will be with the ones you love.'
Her eyes— wet, tearing, looked up into his. 'I will issue the orders for my mother, Comrade General— and for my brother. To be together. I will not issue the orders for my own transportation.'
'You are loyal, child— but you must be with the ones you love, now.'
'I will stay here, Comrade General,' and she cast her eyes down, her voice so low, so hoarse, he could barely hear her words. 'I will be with the one I love, then.'
Varakov closed his eyes, folding the girl into his arms.
They would all die, he knew— unless he could find Rourke and Natalia— and soon.
Chapter Fifty-One
Rourke had placed the three motorcycles aboard the fighter bomber, Natalia and Paul— his left arm slung, useless because of the spear wound until it healed— having removed as much of the camouflage as necessary.
He started forward, seating himself behind the main console in the nose section, testing his electrical system.
Destroy Filmore Air Force base, fly to as near the Retreat as possible, then get the plane camouflaged once again. Go to the Retreat, get the truck, come back for the supplies, leave Paul to recuperate and read the note Natalia insisted he read, the note from her uncle. If it had been urgent, it was not urgent now, he thought.
So much time had elapsed.
Then regardless of the note, before doing whatever it was General Varakov was so insistent about— find his wife, his children.
Sarah--Michael--Annie--Rourke exhaled a long sigh, chewing down on his cigar as he watched the gauges rise. It was stuffy— but he didn't want to start the climate control systems panel yet. There was still more to check out.
What could Varakov want? he wondered. Perhaps Natalia's position had become untenable and Varakov merely wanted her with him— safe. Rourke smiled— he hardly considered himself safe, or anyone with him.
But whatever, the note would not be the important thing. It would be secondary. He would search Tennessee, search for Resistance units— perhaps one had seen something of a woman and two children. Were they still on horseback? he wondered.
He smiled as he thought of the animals— Tildie, his wife's, and Sam, his own, the big gray with the black mane and tail and four black stockings.
It would be good to ride with them again— to ride Sam, to ride with Sarah.
He could hear the thunder as it rumbled in the sky. He would maintain radio silence to avoid accidental Soviet detection. He imagined static would be unbearable at the higher altitudes anyway. He kept checking his instruments...
Filmore Air Force base came into view as Rourke, flying low as he planned to do cross country, came over the ridge of rocks. He adjusted his altitude to match the lower level of the valley floor, beginning his attack run.
'John— if it will be easier,' Natalia's voice came through his headset radio, 'I can launch the missiles from my controls.'
Rourke nodded in his helmet. 'No— I'll do it,' he told her, his face mask clouding a little as he spoke. He overflew the field, climbing slightly to bank, mentally picking his targets on the computer grids, verifying with the television optical unit mounted under the nose that the base was still untouched and the assault would be necessary. There were human figures on the ground— wildmen, from the quick look at them. There would be some left, wandering, leaderless.
Their loss would be necessary— and useful, too. He finished the bank, rolling over into a level flight path, checking his angle of attack indicator, his approach indexer, these mounted to his left front.
He reached out his gloved-left hand, his right on the control stick, adjusting the switches on his air combat
